A frightful crash of crockery came as a reply. "Susannah!" "Yes, miss." "Don't look any more, I will go out and buy something." "Don't mind me," said Charles. "Anything will do for me; I am used--I mean----" "I am not going to have father come back and find you starved to death; he'd kill me. I'm going out marketing; will you come?" "With pleasure." "Then wait till I fetch my hat and a basket." "May I light a cigar?" "Yes, smoke everywhere, every one does," and she rushed upstairs for her hat. A moment later she returned, hat on head, and bearing in her hand a little basket adorned with blue ribbons: a pound of tea would have freighted it. "How on earth is she going to get the dinner into that?" thought her companion, as he unbarred the hall door and followed her down the steps. Then they found themselves walking down the weed-grown avenue, the birds twittering overhead in the light of the warm June evening. That he should be going "a-marketing" in Highgate accompanied by a pretty girl with a basket did not, strangely enough, impress Charles Bevan as being an out-of-the-way occurrence. He felt as if he had known the Lamberts for years--a good many years. He no longer contemplated the joyous tragedy of their life wholly as a spectator; he had become suddenly and without volition one of the actors, a subordinate actor--a thinking part, one might call it. The fearful fascination exercised by these people seemed, strange to say, never so potent as when exercised upon hard-headed people, as Major Sawyer and many another could have told. "I love marketing," said Fanny, as they trudged along, "at least buying things." "Have you any money?" "Lots," said Miss Lambert, producing a starved-looking purse. She opened it and peeped in at the three and sixpence it contained, and then shut it with a snap as if fearful of their escaping. "What do you like next best to marketing?" asked Charles in the sedate voice of a heavy father speaking to his favourite child. "Opening parcels." "I don't quite----" "Oh, you know--strange parcels when they come, or when father brings them, one never knows what may be in them--chocolate creams or what. I wonder what father will bring me back this time?" "Where has he gone to?" "He has gone to get some money." "He will be back this evening?" "Yes, unless he finds it difficult getting the money. If he does, he won't be home till morning." She spoke as an Indian squaw might speak, whose father or husband has gone a-hunting, whilst Charles marvelled vaguely. "But suppose--he doesn't get any money?" "Oh, he will get it all right, people are so good to him. Poor, dear Mr Hancock----" She stopped suddenly. "Yes, yes." "He said we weren't to tell." She spoke in a secretive voice which greatly inflamed her companion's curiosity. "You might tell me, but don't if you don't want to."